The Quiet Streets of Winslow (29 page)

“You know how long a prison sentence is for killing somebody?” Dad said. “Even when it's unpremeditated?”

“I thought it depended on some stuff.”

“It's a long time, no matter what.”

“Well, I know that, Dad. I'm not going to kill anybody.”

Dad stopped and looked at the sunset in front of us, the red-orange line along the horizon.

“There's not just the act itself you have to think about, Travis. There's the behavior afterward. Whether the person chooses to say, Yes, I did this. Here's how it happened and why. Not a rationalization, but an explanation, after admitting his guilt.”

“Well, you'd be afraid to admit it.”

“No excuse.”

“But you wouldn't want people to think of you that way.”

“Nonetheless,” Dad said.

“You mean, you could forgive somebody for doing it but not for not admitting it?”

“I don't like that word,
forgiveness
. I don't believe it has a meaning, outside the trivial,” Dad said. “I'm short-tempered with Mom, I say I'm sorry, she forgives me. You don't want to be with somebody who's going to hold a short-tempered moment against you. Anyway, that's forgiveness. But when you're talking about something more serious, it's different. What you're talking about is a matter of disappointment. Losing respect for somebody. Forgiveness at that level doesn't mean much. You can forgive the person, but forgiving them won't necessarily give you those things back.”

“Ever?” I said.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

Dad whistled to Recluse, who had gone too far ahead, after something, probably. We watched her run in circles, then back to us. She didn't want to get too far away. She didn't have that confidence in us yet.

“Your kids are always your kids, though,” Dad said. “Respect, disappointment, that has nothing to do with love.”

“Okay,” I said.

“You see what I'm saying?”

“Sort of.”

We were almost back to Canyon Road, and somebody going past in a pickup waved to us. They had their headlights on, and we couldn't see. Billy's stepfather maybe.

“Then there's the part that would be my fault,” Dad said. “That's where the most pain would lie, if you want to talk about pain.”

I didn't want to talk about it. We hadn't really been talking about pain.

“What kids get from their parents is undiluted,” he said. “I'll give you an example. Let's say that you, the father, the adult, you're lax about a lot of things, you put things off, you don't always pay your bills on time, you're late for work pretty often, but you get by. You get most things done. What happens to your kid is that he can't structure his time at all, can't get his homework done, can't get anything done, not just as a kid but his whole life. He can't organize himself. Kids don't see the subtleties, the degrees. It's all or nothing. That's what they learn.”

Dad slapped his hand against his leg, meaning
come here
, to the dogs, and the dogs wandered over.

“I had a temper when I drank,” Dad said. “You know that. In the kitchen one night, I picked up a chair and threw it through a window. And there was Nate, watching TV in the living room, seeing me do it. Scared to death.”

“What were you mad about?”

“Nothing, Travis. I mean, who knows? Nothing worth throwing a chair through a window over.”

“What happened then?”

Dad shook his head. Ahead was our house lit up, and the dogs were trotting toward it.

“I made a big deal out of apologizing,” he said. “You know, it was still all about me. Look how sorry I am, Sandra. That's how you get when you're drunk. Center of your own world. Center of
the
world. Don't start drinking, Travis. Smoke pot instead.”

I laughed.

“I'm not entirely kidding. But I am kidding. Listen, Travis, you're at a funny age. It's not easy to know how to talk to you. You'll see what I mean someday.”

“Talk to me like I'm an adult.”

“You aren't one.”

“You did before.”

“I know that,” Dad said. “I probably shouldn't have.”

My mother was standing outside, waiting for us.

“That story I just told you, Travis,” Dad said quietly, “about the chair, your mom doesn't know.”

“You should tell her so she understands Nate better,” I said.

“No,” Dad said. “Not that one. I don't want her seeing me in that light.”

As we got closer Mom looked nervous, and we thought at first that something had happened that she dreaded telling us. But no. Nothing had happened. That was just how we were now, waiting for the next bad thing. Mom was like that now, too.

chapter forty-two

SAM RUSH

I
DECIDED TO WAIT
a day before I questioned Paulette Hebson. Even if Paul Bowman had kept his word, Kevin would have warned her, and I figured the longer she had to wait for me to show up, the less control she would have when we spoke.

I stayed the night in Flagstaff at a Marriott, a room on the tenth floor with a small balcony from where you could see the dark outline of the hills. I had an early dinner at the hotel restaurant and allowed myself to imagine calling Audrey Birdsong and asking her to make the drive to Flagstaff and spend the night with me in my nice hotel room. There was some small possibility she might have said yes, as in anything was possible. What she would think of me, I didn't know and wouldn't know. It was not in my character to try it.

Up in my room I sat at the desk, itemizing my receipts and figuring up mileage. Then I phoned Bob McLaney at home, which unfortunately he was used to, and caught him up on my conversation with Kevin Rainey and told him my plans for Paulette Hebson tomorrow. Bob was one of the county attorneys who worked with us on our cases from beginning to end, pointed out the legalities, reminded us what we
needed in terms of evidence and so on. Bob and I were close in age, and we had known each other a long time.

After that I lay in bed, watching the news, trying to get interested in what was happening in the world, none of it good. I should have called Audrey Birdsong just to say hello, I thought. Why hadn't I? Now the hour wasn't good. Even if she were up, having returned from work, she would be tired. She would have been talking to people all day. But if she had been working, tonight, she wouldn't have been home earlier anyway. With a woman I was interested in, I second-guessed myself. The trust I felt in myself leaked away.

I turned off the TV and tried to sleep.

I
N THE MORNING
I sat with Paulette Hebson in her small living room. Through the window I could see her automobile graveyard in the morning sun, the light glinting off the metal, the sun shining on the half acre of fiberglass, tires, metal, and glass. She wore men's clothes, as she had before—jeans, a button-down shirt, and work boots. Her shoulder-length hair was roughly tangled. She had been out in the wind, when I had driven up, digging up a patch of prickly pear infringing on the path to her kitchen door.

“I imagine that you've spoken to Kevin, by now, and Paul Bowman,” I said. “Let's start with our first conversation and why you told me you didn't have family, you didn't have a child.”

“I wasn't much of a mother, Deputy Sheriff. I thought it was time I tried being one.”

“By lying about it?”

“By being protective.”

“So when you heard about Jody Farnell's death,” I said, “your first thought was what?”

“Just that he knew her. That's all. I never thought he had anything to do with it, but he has that record. It follows him.”

“So Kevin told you that he met Jody Farnell,” I said. “When was that?”

“I couldn't even tell you,” she said. She put a hand to her hair and tried to smooth it. “Two months ago, maybe? He didn't say a whole lot. Just mentioned her, really. I asked him how his day had gone, and he said, ‘I helped a girl move into her place,' and I said, Who?, and he told me her name.”

“When was the next time he spoke of her?”

“Never,” Paulette said. “At least I can't recall it.”

“In Winslow Kevin goes to PT's fairly often,” I said. “Sometimes drinks a bit too much. How many times have you picked him up there?”

“Let's see,” she said. “Once last winter, or maybe twice. Usually he'll sleep in the station wagon, but if it's too cold, he'll call me.”

The living room was adjacent to the kitchen, and she went in and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Would you like some?” she called out to me, and when I told her no thanks, she came back with hers and waited for my next question.

“So the night of the twenty-fourth and the morning of the twenty-fifth, you were here at home?”

“I imagine I was,” she said. “I don't go out a lot. I'm past that age.”

“Where was Kevin? Did he happen to tell you?”

“Not that I can remember. But we don't talk every day. Once a week maybe. Sometimes he'll come over for supper.”

“So he didn't happen to call you, during that time, or come over?”

“I don't believe so.”

“Well, he was seen talking to Jody at PT's the night of the twenty-fourth,” I said. “That was the night she was killed.”

“Is that right?” Paulette said. “Well, I don't think he was interested in her anymore.”

“I believe it was Jody who wasn't interested anymore.”

She held her coffee and gazed outside.

“That had to be tough on him,” I said. “Don't you imagine? I can tell you from experience that that kind of thing is hard on a man's ego. Then on top of that, Jody was telling him about her boyfriend. Kevin told me that himself.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, for Kevin's sake. But girls have broken up with him before, and he's handled it fine, Deputy Sheriff. He gets over things.”

“It had to make him angry, though. I understand he's had trouble with his temper in the past.”

Paulette put a hand to the back of her neck, under her tangle of hair.

“That friend of his was at fault,” she said. “He admitted to that, afterward. Even contacted the police and said he shouldn't have made the trouble he did.”

“But there was a fight that took place. The friend ended up with a black eye and a separated shoulder, as I understand.”

“That went both ways. Kevin was bruised some as well, but he didn't start it. Kevin doesn't have any worse of a temper than your average person. He never raises his voice to me, and as I've said I have not been much of a mother. He forgives people.”

One of her boots had come unlaced and she leaned forward and tied it.

“But you were nervous when you read about Jody Farnell's death. You were nervous enough to call Paul Bowman and ask him to meet you, and the two of you were nervous enough to hide the truth from me.”

“It sounds bad when you put it that way.” She was trying for light-heartedness, and
trying for
was how it came across.

“If Kevin was involved in Jody Farnell's death,” I said, “do you see that it incriminates the two of you?”

“What are you saying, Deputy Sheriff? You have proof that he killed this person?”

“Jody,” I said.

“Yes,” Paulette said. “I know her name.”

She stood and walked close to the window. When she turned back to me she looked sorry.

“I know her name,” she said more gently.

“Let me tell you what I know so far,” I said. “Jody didn't want to see Kevin anymore. Wouldn't accept a drink from him at PT's, wouldn't talk to him except to tell him about her boyfriend. On the night of her death, Kevin and Jody were seen talking at PT's, and not long after that Jody was killed. That's what we know from the autopsy. Her body was dumped in Black Canyon City, where Kevin knew Jody's boyfriend has family, then her car was brought back here, to Holbrook, where Kevin lives. Not far from his mother's house, and within sight of his trailer. Meanwhile Kevin's vehicle was sitting in the parking lot of the bar in Winslow where he and Jody were last seen.”